(Charles Huntingdon and Louisa Wilbrahim have repelled the Rector's threats)
The next day a message arrived from Stanegate that Miss Louisa Wilbrahim wished to speak to me concerning matters that she had heard Mr Bunbridge mention. I set off immediately on Alexander, taking with me the papers we had obtained.
I found Louisa alone in the library. Her
face suggested she had not slept much that night. Was it true, she asked me,
that Sir James doubted that she was truly his daughter? I replied that this was
indeed the case, though I had made discoveries of my own that proved his doubts
to be mistaken. I then placed the bundle of papers on the table and asked
whether she wished that we should read through them together, but she shook her
head: she would study them alone.
I
accordingly left her. I found Sir James asleep, so I sat with Becky in the
kitchen and recounted to her what had passed in the church. It felt as though
many hours passed before Louisa joined us. Her face showed signs of tears.
Becky ran to her and hugged her.
“I have read my father’s letters”, she
informed us, “It was right that I should know everything. Having read them all,
I burnt them on the fire, and stirred the ashes till nothing remained. No-one
else saw them, and now I shall do my best to forget they ever existed.
I took her hand and looked her in the eye.
She might have been crying, but her gaze was now steady.
“Oh,
my poor father!” she said, “How he must have suffered!”
She paused in silence for a while before
continuing, “But now we must go to see him and explain what we have done,
and we shall write a new will for him to sign.”
Louisa and I entered the room together. Sir
James was in a fitful sleep, in which he occasionally muttered to himself, and we
remained silent at the bedside until he suddenly awoke. He exhibited no
surprise at finding me there and began to speak. He appeared to be addressing
the world in general. His voice was feeble, but his brain was clear enough. He
talked for a while of his life and lamented that his line was now at an end.
“But that is not so, sir”, I interrupted
him, “For you have a daughter, who will be a fine lady, and a credit to your
family in years to come”.
“A daughter! A daughter of mine?” he
replied, with a querulous note, and sighed.
I knew what was passing through his mind. I
glanced at Louisa, who guessed I intended to speak plainly, and nodded in
agreement. I had had time to prepare my words, and I now launched into a speech
that in my memory seems more to resemble an oration I might have delivered in
Parliament. Louisa meanwhile knelt at the bedside and took her father’s hand.
“Sir”, I said, “I know you have always
doubted her parentage, but I can tell you plainly that there is no shadow of
doubt but that you are her true father. I know you have suspected that she
might be of royal blood, begotten by the Prince when he passed through here in
December of 1745. But sir, I have it on certain authority, from one who was
here with the Scotch forces, that this is by no means the case. The Prince, she
assured me, treated your wife with the greatest respect. Indeed, how could
anyone conceive that so noble a Prince would ever behave so disgracefully as to
dishonour the lady of a host?” I continued, though I knew from Danielle and
other sources that the Prince’s conduct was far from spotless on such
occasions.
I
concluded my peroration by saying, “But those days are long past and best
forgotten; your daughter and I have read all the letters relating to the matter,
and she has burnt them. No, sir: Miss Louisa is your daughter and no-one
else’s: and I request your permission, sir, to ask for her hand in marriage”.
He was now fully awake. He turned his head
to look me in the eye. “You are sure of this?” he asked.
“I am certain, for a certain lady who was
present there told me so of her own free will, and she had no cause to lie.” I
gave him an account of the tale I had heard from Danielle d’Autun, without
telling him of the circumstances under which I had heard it.
He did not enquire who this lady might be,
or how I came to read the account of his doubts and fears about Louisa’s
parentage: instead, he laid his head back on the pillows and breathed a long
sigh. We waited, and after a while, he roused himself again to ask, “Louisa, do
you return Mr Huntingdon’s affection?”
“I do, father.”
“And,
sir, if fate should favour us with a son, he shall bear the name of Wilbrahim
in your memory, and so your line will continue.” I added.
“Then it is well.”
I joined
Louisa on our knees beside his bed while he placed his hands on our heads to
give us his blessing. I would have liked to record that he did so with joy,
with a smile on his lips and a twinkle in his eye, but I fear there was nothing but
profound weariness in his voice. I believe that he had lost interest in
prolonging his life any further: perhaps he was relieved that the problems and doubts which had sorely vexed him ever since Louisa's birth had been solved at
last;or perhaps the thought that had sustained him through all his
disappointments was the belief that, even if she had not been his true
daughter, then he at least had the consolation of devoting his life to guarding a
child who bore the blood of England's true sovereign in her veins. He would have wanted, no doubt, to have
married her to some great nobleman who had remained
true to the Jacobite cause; but this hope had died after Lord Teesdale’s cruel
letter. And now this belief had proved deluded and his life’s work had seemed in vain. The realisation that his lady had been faithful to him would maybe have been but scant consolation after
so many years of widowhood.
Then Louisa said, “Father, I am afraid that
your will was also destroyed. We shall bring you a new one”. He nodded, and
soon he was asleep again.
A few days later Clifford brought
forward the new will that he had drafted, which followed the old one as far as
we could remember it. As I had promised Mr Bunbridge, his legacy was
retained in full, the principal change being that the post of Louisa’s guardian was now
transferred to Richard Kerrington Braithwaite, Esquire, Member of Parliament.
Clifford insisted that the whole document be
read out loud to Sir James, though how much of it he truly heard and
understood I could not say: part of the time he appeared as if his
only desire was to finish with the formalities so that he could sleep. A pen,
already inked, was placed in his hand, and he scrawled what passed for a
signature where he was directed. I had taken the precaution of inviting Mr
Chamberlain and Alderman Stout to be witnesses.
When it was done, Sir James spoke a few
mumbled words to Louisa, raised his hand as if to give her his blessing, and
then fell back. It was as if he had decided that all was resolved, and he had
no further interest in life.
He never regained full consciousness, and
two days later he was visibly on his deathbed. His breath was a low rattle and he
was unable to take food beyond small quantities of soup. Louisa could scarcely
ever be persuaded to leave his bedside. I replaced her during the brief periods
of her absence, and the ever-faithful William appeared to have no need for
sleep as he watched over his master as if waiting for some final command.
The end came abruptly. He suddenly sat upright with
staring eyes, though I doubt he was seeing any of the persons at his
bedside. “I betrayed my King!” he cried, “The King over the water!” Then he
fell back on the pillows and said no more. Louisa fell forward onto the bed in a flood of tears,
for despite everything she had loved her father dearly.
He was given a suitably magnificent funeral
at St Luke’s church. The whole town was in mourning, for Sir James had been universally
respected. His old friends sighed and agreed that an era had now ended. Mr
Bunbridge, I would have to concede, delivered a splendid eulogy on his late
patron, though he contrived to mention Louisa as little as he could, and me not
at all.
We arranged for a memorial cenotaph for Sir
James, with his portrait above a Latin inscription extolling his virtues, to be
carved by the best craftsmen and erected prominently in the church. His
benevolence to the poor of the parish in his will was recorded on a separate
tablet. I myself would acknowledge that,
despite our political disagreements, and for all his attempts to keep me from
Louisa, I too would miss him greatly. He was the last of the old English
squires. Now that his private papers had been burnt, no-one but us would ever
know of his Jacobite treason, or his painful doubts about her true parentage.
After a decent period of mourning, Louisa and
I were married at the same church. The bride was given away by Mr Braithwaite,
and the service, at my request, was conducted by Mr Chamberlain. Mrs Timmis
wept copiously throughout the service, but explained that it was from
happiness. The wedding party then returned to Bearsclough. The villagers all
lined up to escort us home to the Priory, where they were given a feast
that had been prepared. We held another feast for the people of Bereton and a more
intimate banquet for our particular friends. I had wondered how we could avoid
scandal if we did not invite Mr Bunbridge, but he had departed to live with his
sister’s family in Leicestershire. He was seen no more in Bereton, though he
continued to draw his emoluments as Rector.
And so our new life began.
(What follows in the final chapter is an envoi from Charles Huntingdon, written some ten years later, outlining events of the intervening period. Ed.)
